New Contact
by oh-cripe-my-fish
Summary: University AU. Fruk. There's a mysterious number on Arthur Kirkland's phone saved as 'the love of my life'. He doesn't know who it is or how it got there, and quite frankly doesn't care, but Alfred F. Jones has other plans. This is how Arthur gets reacquainted with the infuriating French student Francis Bonnefoy, and ends up falling face first, with no grace whatsoever for him.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Hetalia does not belong to me, the world dodged a bullet with that one._

 **Full summary:** Human, University AU. There's a mysterious number on Arthur's phone saved as 'the love of my life'. He doesn't know who it is or how it got there, only that it appeared after a night out. For almost a year it sits forgotten in his contacts, that is, until Alfred F. Jones decides to give it a text for a laugh. This is how Arthur Kirkland reacquaints himself with the infuriating French student Francis Bonnefoy, and somehow ends up falling face first, with absolutely no grace whatsoever, head over heels for him. Fruk. Ameripan. Gerita and more. Rated for language, alcohol consumption, hinting at sexual scenarios and anything I may write in the future.

 **Note:** I'll never have two different characters talk in the same paragraph, a new one will be taken when another character speaks, just to avoid any confusion.

* * *

 _Chapter 1_

When Alfred F Jones asks to borrow his phone, Arthur Kirkland thinks nothing of it. The burly American is always without a phone. Sometimes it's broken, sometimes it's out of battery, sometimes his contract has expired or he's run out of data and he needs to insta something bizarre. The two are staggering back to Arthur's flat after a night on the town, both drunk, Arthur being the worse off as he clings to Alfred for dear life. Arthur shoves his phone into Alfred's hands and Alfred takes it with a quick thanks, trying to ignore Arthur's babbles about the apocalypse and how it's comparable to the consequences of falling of the curb.

"- because like, you know Al, when you're drunk it's like falling off a cliff and I don't think I'm going to be able to get back up, I haven't been _this_ plastered since your mum's barbeque- good lord, did I ever apologise for that? I don't know-" he rambles, a few words slurring, pausing briefly to remind Alfred about his password. Arthur is too drunk to be type it in properly, hence why Alfred needs to do it. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Totally Artie. "

"Anyway, with tequila in your system it's like falling of a bloody cliff, so be my heroic gentleman and don't let me fall- Alfred slow down, I can't move my legs-"

"Calm down dude, I got you. And your legs are just fine." Alfred says with a laugh, hitching Arthur up his shoulder while the glow of the phone screen lights his face. Scrolling the contacts Alfred looks for his brother's number, his brother who has also been out with them that night, but had disappeared off to the bathroom with Alfred's boyfriend just before the club closed and Alfred needed to let them know they were off for fast-food before they head home. Getting food without waiting on their other 2 companions was the mightiest form of betrayal, but Alfred was always hungry and Arthur wouldn't survive until morning without something to soak up the booze lying in his stomach.

"But _I_ can't feel them," Arthur protests dramatically, trying to pull himself from Alfred's sturdy arm to walk on his own, but Alfred holds fast, knowing the Englishman will only end up on his ass. "Al, leggo! Lemmie go this instant." He sulks as Alfred glances at him in warning with all the wriggling Arthur was doing. "I need to be a strong independent and finically stable adult who doesn't need a man, how am I supposed to do that when I'm clinging to you al'la time?"

"You blew the rest of your cash on that tequila shot. If you keep bitching I'm not buying you any chicken." Alfred threatens with a cheeky smirk and Arthur promptly stops his attempt at freedom, sagging into Alfred's body in defeat.

"Tosser."

"Limey."

"Wanker."

"Old man."

"Oi, I am only 11. 9 months older than you, we're in the same year at uni."

"Could've fooled me with all the embroidery and politics." Alfred says as his finger curiously hovers over the contact name 'the love of my life' before he scrolls on to find Matthew's number, quickly firing of a text to say they're off to get nuggets.

"Tosser." Arthur repeats.

Ignoring the insult, Alfred waves the phone in front of Arthur's face and grins suggestively at him. "Hey Art, who's "the love of my life"?" he asks.

"Isn't it Kiku? Al, I can't believe you forgot the name of your own boyfriend. Get it together mate. "

"No I mean the love of _your_ life, the contact named 'the love of my life' saved in your phone?"

"Hm? Oh that... I dunno actually." Arthur shrugs as if random numbers popped up in his phone on the daily. "It was supposed to have been deleted ages ago but I completely forgot. I kinda hope it's Lee Pace or Tom Hiddleston, or maybe Cate Blanchett, that'd be cool. The love of my life is actually tea, though. Hey! have you ever had tea with vodka in it? it's actually not too bad-"

"Aw man that's gross! you're an animal!"

"It's called survival, Alfred dear boy."

Alfred snorts at the way Arthur chides him, very drunken, yet every bit the pensioner he is at heart. While Alfred was one to embrace his inner carefree childishness every once and a while, Arthur housed an inner three-times-over war veteran who was theoretically a great-grandfather to 14 great grandkids or something like that.

"Aren't you curious about who the person is?"

"Not in the slightest."

"I am. When did you find out you had the number saved in your phone?"

"I really don't know... last year maybe?"

"Did you sleep with him? Is that what happened? A cheeky one night stand?"

"If I did, I can't remember. And don't just _assume_ I'm gay." Arthur adds the last part offhandedly, Alfred cracks up laughing.

" _But_ _you are_!"

"You know, I'm willing to bet that if you had nuggets you wouldn't be asking so many questions and assuming people's sexualities."

Alfred hums thoughtfully and shrugs. He couldn't deny it. The moment Alfred shoulders his way into the Fried Chicken joint, towing Arthur in behind him, the mysterious contact is forgotten as they're overwhelmed with the smell of mouth watering, super salty, deep fried food.

It doesn't remain forgotten forever.

* * *

Morning light filters in through the windows to fall on his face, disturbing his sleep. Birds tweet brightly outside, the sounds of a rare and decent summers day in England filtering in through the open window along with the fresh air. Arthur groans and opens his eyes. pulling his face out of a cold box of nuggets and a bag of half eaten chips. Head pounding and stomach churning, he's tempted just to lay his face back down in the chicken and squeeze his eyes shut. The smell of coffee reaches his nostrils and he jerks to sit upright, his stomach giving a lurch at the smell. He swallows heavily, breathes deep, inhales more coffee and finally stumbles from his desk chair in a mad dash for the bathroom. (it turns out he'd fallen asleep at his desk after writing half an assignment when Alfred and he had finally arrived home- it wouldn't be one bit acceptable for submission anytime soon, and he'd also penned an apology to Mrs Jones-Williams asking her to forgive him for vomiting in her potted chrysanthemums when Alfred and he had returned to America for the Summer a months past)

The clanging about upstairs signals Arthur's awake and Matthew Williams, twin brother of Alfred, smiles to himself as he checks on the sizzling bacon in the oven. Alfred groans from his spot at the kitchen table, eyeing up the eggs frying on the hob. While Matthew is about to feed Alfred, Arthur and himself a fry, Kiku opts to munch on a less heavy breakfast of porridge and oats as he sits on one side of Alfred.

"How are you not hungover?" Alfred queries, more like bemoans, at Matthew, his head in his palms. "You had more to drink than me."

"Strategy. I space my drinks out and have glasses of water in between each one Al... Most of the time, anyway." Matthew says, remembering how he had also joined Arthur in vomiting into his mother's cherished flowers as he flips a bit of potato bread in the pan. It had been a horrid night for both of them, but a moment of bonding. "You and Arthur just throw them back, a nights worth in an hour and then you two go dry for the rest of the night. Seriously, you two have got to ease up on things, especially the shots."

Kiku looks fondly at Alfred and nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. The Japanese young man doesn't drink much, if anything at all, when he joins them on the odd night out, and so is spared all of their suffering.

"You drunk a lot of hard liquor," Kiku tells him. "Almost as much as Arthur this time,"

At that moment Arthur sticks his head into the kitchen, scowling profoundly. "I heard my name." He grumbles as he stalks in. Matthew bites back a laugh at seeing the dried ketchup in his hair.

"Speaking of the devil," Alfred says. "Look at you, you look like something from the walking dead, jeeze... What the heck is that in your hair?"

"I don't know, I'm too afraid to look in the mirror. " Arthur grumbles as he plonks himself down in the chair. "So Matthew, who was the girl?"

"Girl? what? A Girl?" Alfred straightens up and twists his body to stare at Matthew in surprise. "I don't remember a girl from last night. Bro, when were you going to tell me you'd got yourself a girl? I feel so betrayed, I can't believe you'd keep secrets from your own-"

"Alfred, you've been awake for ten minutes." Kiku interrupts politely with a small laugh, and Alfred grins over at him, puckering his lips in a kissing gesture.

"I would've slept in longer if you had stayed for cuddles."

Arthur fakes a wretch. "Spare me from vomiting a second time." he complains.

Kiku's cheeks warm instantly at Alfred words, "But you smelt of stale tobacco smoke and had really bad acetone breath. "

"You still love me after seeing me at my worst, don't you?" Alfred teases. Kiku nods.

"Of course I do."

Arthur rolls his eyes at the two of them, romance was all well and good. but unless he was caught up in it himself, it was hard to stomach.

"She was very pretty," Arthur says over the top of Alfred and Kiku, and they all focus their attention on Matthew again.

Tactically, Matthew announces the fry is ready and hurries to dish it out onto three warmed plates. He sets one down in front of Alfred, who promptly loses interest in the conversation and busies himself digging in, and one in front of Arthur, who wrinkles his nose at the enticing smell, it's delicious aroma tainted with his hangover. Arthur grumbles loudly about Alfred stuffing his face unbecomingly, declaring it was putting him off his food. Alfred rightly argues that Arthur wasn't the one having to look at someone with last night's midnight snack stuck in their hair. And that is how the usual kitchen-table tennis match begins.

Kiku smiles sympathetically at Matthew, Matthew smiles back with a finger to his lips.

* * *

There's a buzzing from the opposite end of the kitchen, on the counter beside the microwave, and Alfred hops up from his seat to walk towards it, snatching up the phone and pulling it from the charging chord. Arthur is too busy fangirling, or what he terms "educating" them, despite nobody else wanting to hear it, over Andy Murray and his amazing Wimbledon record to notice it's his own phone Alfred is currently texting on.

"Hey Arthur, the love of your life has got back to me and wants to know if you're 'big bushy eyebrows' and if you got his number from the Halloween party at Antonio's last year?"

"B-Bushy eyebrows!?" Arthur repeats indignantly. "Wait! you've had my phone all this time...?!" He paused, eyes widening in horror and he stared at Alfred, those bright blue eyes twinkling with harmless mirth as Arthur's proceed to go cold with the thought of murder. "No... no, you didn't..." he murmurs disbelievingly.

"I did!"

"You wouldn't..."

"I would and I have, dude. Contact has been made, wanna see what we've been chatting about?"

"Alfred! How could you?!"

"Dude come on, no hissy fitting with me. It's only a bit of fun. Do you wanna see or nah?"

"I most certainly do not! Cease all communication with the bellend this instant."

Alfred shrugs and continues typing away as Arthur launches himself at him, arms outstretched. Being the enthusiastic American Football hobbyist he is, Alfred finds it easy enough to avoid gangly Arthur without having to lift his eyes from the phone.

"I went ahead and confirmed his suspicions that yes, you're the _one and only_ big-browed beast of a man, and you're looking for some fun- Oh look he's typing!"

"Alfred..." Matthew warns. Kiku sighs, smiling as he shakes his head at Alfred's antics.

"Bloody yank!" Arthur roars.

"Awwwwwwww, he called you a cutie!" Alfred coos at the screen. Everyone is thoroughly amused when Arthur's fussing halts. The Englishman stands awkwardly, flustered.

"... he did?"

"He said you'd be even cuter without the brows, though."

"What a wanker! Tell him to go shag a nun!"

Alfred talks as he types. "Arthur... says.. go... S. H. A. G, a-"

"No, don't!"

"Too late!" Alfred beams brightly at him, finally passing the phone to a nervously perspiring Arthur.

Arthur scrolls the conversation the two had been having, eyes widening with every text he read. Alfred and this bloke had discussed quite a lot about him. His heart's in his mouth as he stops and reads a name, the name opening the floodgates to a haze of drunken memories of busy hands and hot kisses and accented murmurs of "I can't do this, I have a girlfriend."

Arthur knew this person far too well. His greatest nemesis, most cherished foe. The biggest _twat_ to exist on planet Earth and beyond.

 _Francis_ _Fucking_ Arjean _Bonnefoy_.

Alfred grins at him, the American knew the history shared between the two of them, and found it far too amusing Arthur would end up with the number of his self-declared eternal enemy after a night filled with God-only-knew-what, it made the American question everything about his best friend had ever said and done.

The phone buzzes, making Arthur jilt.

"Bollocks!" Arthur curses, turning his attention to the message demanding his attention.

'Typical of you to say that, Eyebrows. We should grab coffee sometime.' Francis suggests. Arthur reads over it a second time, brow furrowing further as the self-absorbed bastard's flowery, European voice fabricates in his mind. It far too easy to picture the pompous smirk on his stubbly gob. God. Arthur hates him. So much.

The nauseous feeling in his stomach that was an unfortunate consequence of last night's shenanigans intensifies, not trusting himself to _not_ have went there with the French exchange buffoon- because when push comes to shove, Arthur knew from experience that if he's drunk, is feeling particularly randy and has a shot with someone as regrettably and infuriatingly good looking as Francis Bonnefoy, he doubted that history and his sober self's sense of dignity would stop him from giving him a go, and Francis was known for his promiscuousness no matter the circumstances.

He cannot remember that night, save for bits and pieces and those desperate searing kisses, for the life of him.

Slowly looking up at Alfred, who's cheeks are pink with restrained laughter, Arthur smiles taught at him.

"Matthew, I'm terribly sorry for your loss." Arthur apologizes too-sweetly. "Yours too, Kiku. So, so sorry he didn't get to propose." he adds, before grabbing a greasy spatula from the cold frying pan. Alfred is sprinting up the street in his pajamas and slippers in seconds flat, Arthur hot on his heels and shouting profanities. Kiku closes the front door behind them when Matthew complains about the draft. The two of them had been long accustomed to Arthur and Alfred's... rowdy behaviour, for lack of a better word, but their unfortunate neighbours weren't.

* * *

 **End notes:** Beware that I am an author with commitment issues attempting to write a chaptered fanfiction for the first time in my life, let's see how this goes! The inspiration for this is accredited to a cocky asshole that dared save his number in my phone under that name. Thanks for the fic idea, dude! At the time, he didn't know I was gay lol. It's going to be slow build FrUk, but I'm sure you've already guessed.

Okay so I've said enough. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! And if -for some bizarre reason - you're sticking with this fic, I really hope for your sake that you like the Bad Friend's Trio. I do. Too much.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I own Hetalia in my dreams, but in reality I don't. Phew._

Lmao hi again! I'll keep this brief and I'll give ya'll my dumbass excuses for my absence in the end notes, but I just wanted to say thank you here to everyone who took their time to review last chapter, honestly you all left me smiling super goofy at reading them. Thank you thank you thank you! And thank you to everyone who favourited and followed this story too, you are all super loved and appreciated too.

 **Notes:** I'll never have 2 characters speak in the same paragraph, a new one will always be taken. I write weird and inconsistently so I just wanted state this to try and avoid confusion. There are also time related inconsistencies between this chapter and chapter one (I'm really, really trying not to think about them uughhhh), but I'll fix both chapters and their many mistakes at a later date.

* * *

 _Chapter 2_

It was not uncommon for Berlin born Gilbert Beilschmidt to beg for the sweet release of death every morning. Why? He wasn't _ever_ an early riser, being at least twenty minutes late to every lecture he had in the morning, and Francis Bonnefoy was like an early morning song bird as he showered, with the glaring exception of his voice – so really he was just a really annoying morning bird. As their third musketeer Antonio Fernandez Carriedo had once wisely said; Francis might be pretty, but his vocal chords definitely were not.

Fuelled by his irrational hatred for mornings, Gilbert flung the bathroom door open and barely blinked as the handle hit the wall, Francis's melodic high note on the other hand morphs into girly screech and he whirled around in the shower, eyes squeezed tight as shampoo dripped down his temple, dangerously close to his eye.

"This is humiliating, I can't believe I'm going to be kidnapped while showering!" Francis says melodramatically, peeking an eye open and laughing at the sight of glowering Gilbert standing tall in the doorway holding one of his many ' _I am not a morning person'_ mugs. He owned three in different sizes and colours, discounting the one showcasing the German translation mailed to him by his little brother, and the custom made mug that Antonio had gifted to him last year as part of his birthday present reading ' _Trust me. I am definitely,_ _ **definitely**_ _, not a morning person._ ' to match Francis' gifted mug of 'Don't talk to me before 10am if you like your knee caps.'

"Morning, Gil." Francis then greeted jovially, returning to washing the shampoo from his hair. Gilbert despised how wide awake he seemed.

"Ugh. Turn around and point it in the other direction." grunts Gilbert, pulling out shaving foam from the cabinet above the sink and foaming up his face, searching for his razor.

"There's this thing called personal space," Francis banters casually and smiles at Gilbert's raspy laugh.

"Yeah, and I know you hate respecting it." He retaliates with a wicked smirk, starting to shave. Beside the container holding all of their toothbrushes, Francis' phone pings and Gilbert leans over curiously, peeking at the message.

"Some person called 'I'm amazing' says _'I've thought it over and reconsidered...'_ whatever that means...?" Gilbert brows lifted in interest and he grinned slyly at the Frenchman through the steamed up glass, morning gloom lifting as he slowly became more sociable. "The rest of the message is cut off. What are you up to? Why the hell is someone named 'I'm amazing' on your phone?" he rasped curiously. Luck was on Francis' side however, a knock on the open door interrupted them and a rueful head of brunette hair peeped in.

"Amigos? I really need to take a quick leak." Chirps Gilbert's polar opposite in the morning, a young man who never seemed to be disheartened by early morning rises and constant sleep-deprivation – the lack of sleep being due to his poor time management when it came to meeting deadlines, alongside his recreational bong use. This ray of bright Madrid sunshine went by the name of Antonio.

"Come on in and join the party, Toni!" Francis welcomes merrily as Gilbert glares pointedly at the Spaniard, then directs that glare to an enthusiastically rinsing Frenchman, then glares at his own dishevelled and exhausted reflection in the mirror, which was glaring back at him as if he had offended seven generations of his own family.

Antonio enters, hands aloft in surrender at Gilbert's gaze crossing his in the mirror.

"Sorry about the interruption guys, but Elizabeta's using the other bathroom." The Spanish International student explains. Gilbert already knows this, the blooming bruise on his shoulder a result of her short temper coupled with Gilbert's inability to knock. Antonio smiles, it's blinding to both of the other occupants in the room. "She threatened to shove a toothbrush so far up my ass it would remain lost forever..." his smile faltered for a fraction of a second.

Grinning mischievously, Francis wipes a hand along the glass. "Sound's like a very fun time." he snarks. Gilbert's long groan is glorious as Antonio chimes with laughter, lifting the toilet seat with a gentle _clink_.

"That was a lovely rendition of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance Francis, it was like waking up to the sound of angels." Antonio says over the sound of all sorts of trickling liquids in the bathroom. Poking fun at Francis' hit and miss vocal chords. The Spaniard finished up and shoves Gilbert aside to wash his hands with a hasty "Lo siento."

"Kind of like waking up to the shill shrieking of a banshee." Gilbert grumbles, shoving his toothbrush in his mouth, forever brutally honest before 9am. His two friends laugh. "Definitely not better than the simple sacred concept of sweet fucking silence at 7:30am." He argues as he shoves Antonio aside when the Spaniard runs his hands under the water for a second longer than necessary.

Instead of apologizing for being more obnoxious than one of dawn's roosters, Francis smirks and instead declares his voice a blessing on the world, resulting in a heated argument for and against, with Gilbert insisting it was a worldwide curse and that Antonio didn't have a trained ear. While the two were distracted, Francis focused on finishing up showering and stepped out, wrapping a towel tightly around him as he made a beeline for his phone that was almost drenched in the mouthwash Gilbert was trying to pour over Antonio as Antonio aimed his tube of toothpaste. How it had come to this, Francis didn't know, he instead stood back, opened his phone and read Arthur's reply hastily, ignoring his two friends in front of him making a mess of the bathroom.

Getting a text from Arthur was the last thing Francis had ever expected. He didn't even realise he had the Englishman's number all this time. Having an ungodly amount of numbers in his phone from all the flirting he does (and he knows he does it well- the sheer quantity of people in his contacts was like a testament to that) Arthur Kirkland's number had got lost in the midst of them. For all Francis knew, it was another one night stand's number he shouldn't ever need again, unless something disastrous became of it (This wisdom was a result of a panicked phone call from a woman he had shared a drunk night with in Greece during the lads holiday he'd been on during the summer he'd transitioned from high school to university, which was thankfully a false alarm, Francis was nowhere near responsible enough for a kid) but Arthur's ill named number had got lost in his cluttered phone. Then one morning last week, an interesting message from an interestingly named person pinged out of the blue. ' _I'm amazing'_ was the odd name and ' _you could be the second Oscar to my DiCaprio. I don't need you, but I hella want you hottie._ ' Was the pick up line that had started it all. It baffled Francis and made him laugh until his cheeks were rosy red with tears building in his eyes and he couldn't help himself but reply. What sane person would pass up on the opportunity to reply to that? Francis now knew that it was the genius of the campus-wide adored Alfred Jones, courtesy of Arthur's angry explanation between insults.

 _I've thought it over and reconsidered_ , Arthur texts, as _much as I don't like looking at your stupid face,_ _I think it's something we need to do. I'm sure you want to fill in the blanks as much as me._

Ah, same old Arthur, forever the charmer, Francis thinks. It was a shame he hadn't picked up some tips from his friend Alfred on how to woo someone, that American had a good game.

It had almost been a full year since the Halloween incident, and the two had only spoken briefly since between exchanging insults, witty comments and heated, dirty looks in passing. When they weren't doing that they were having full blown arguments in the most inappropriate places, such as the library and exam hall – and all this pettiness had begun in the first week of their university experience _over a goddamn Panini,_ which was a long story for a different day.

How the two of them had ended up in each other's lap on Halloween last year was as much as a mystery and miracle to Francis as it was to Arthur. Francis vaguely remembered what happened – the night had got steamy and they'd done a few little regretful things, but in the end they hadn't slept together. Still, Arthur wanted some sort of clarification about what happened and Francis would prefer to fill in his own gaps in memory – at no point in the night could he remember exchanging numbers.

 _Then it's a date. How about Wednesday? I'm off. I can also do Thursday after 4._ Francis negotiates.

 _A date? My arse, Frog. 12.30 Wednesday suits._ A speedy reply _._

It would be a challenge to sit at a coffee table and be civil with someone who supposedly hated him (Francis doesn't return the sentiment with as much vigor) but it would be a challenge Francis was willing to accept.

Francis smiles and hums to himself, tapping out a 'see you then'. He barely has time to lock his phone and move it out of reach before his two best friends invade his personal bubble, which was rather hard to do considering he required a very small, minimalist one. Antonio's behind him and clinging to his neck like a koala and Gilbert's all up in his face asking about 'I'm amazing'.

"Spit it out , who's the new lady?" Gilbert demands to know, trying to rob him of his phone, grinning white knashers almost as white as his messy hair.

"Who said anything about a lady?"Francis hummed. His counter attack is a sloppy kiss to Gilbert's nose, who tumbles to the floor clutching at his face.

"Whoop. Man down." Antonio announces in amusement, hopping onto Francis back. "That narrows it down to a man! Get his legs, Gil!"

Francis' eyes widen at their synchronised teamwork. Francis defends his phone fervently, so much so that he'd rather expose himself, which was nothing new to the three friends, towel falling from his waist.

"Who said anything about a man either!?" exclaims Francis, staggering a little at Gilbert's tackle while Antonio's fingers almost close around his phone.

"It's a lecturer! That's how you managed to past first year! You never did any assignments!" Gilbert shouts.

Francis snickered and wobbling under their combined weight, latching on the sink for support. "Lecturers are also men and women, genius."

Antonio appeared to have an epiphany, eyes lighting up "Aliens are real!"

A third year Belgian international student who was also studying the same course of traditional art combined with spare modules photography and editing as Francis paused in shuffling past the bathroom door, peering in at the noise. She stares at the tangled men for exactly 5 seconds, looks down into her cereal, a bowl of delicious frosted flakes, looks back up again, back down , back up, seems to consider intervening but then closes her eyes, shaking her head before she shuffles on towards her own bedroom, but not without stopping off at Elizabeta's room first, because no one else could tame the three baboons quite like she could.

* * *

It was only the fourth Wednesday in the first semester and Arthur already had enough in his life to stress over- two upcoming deadlines he'd forgotten about (small ones, but still incredibly important lab reports), the damp patch that was progressively getting bigger on the utility room ceiling, the fact he had missed two full seasons of Doctor Who and had made it a personal goal of his to get caught up by the end of the month. Then to top it all off, there was Alfred F. Jones. How would Alfred stay alive without Arthur? Arthur Kirkland, who was currently on day five of giving poor Alfred the cold shoulder for the texting stunt in which he had started a conversation with _Francis Fucking_ Arjean _Bonnefoy_ (and unearthing a night Arthur would rather have remained forgotten). Arthur was the reason Alfred had such an easy life, in his own opinion. Because Alfred needed Arthur like a fish needed water, like a flower needed oxygen, like a superhero needed a complementary supervillain. Arthur was the boisterous Canadian-American's* kick up the arse for when he had work to do, or when he had to buy food to feed himself, or when he had to pay his rent to the estate agent or his share of the electricity bill, Arthur was even his _alarm clock_ some mornings.

The thought that Arthur was more or less Alfred's mother away from home is stressful in itself, but nothing, not even feeling like a middle-aged parent to a five foot ten fully grown twenty year old American football player and trying and struggling to survive a medicine degree, is as stressful as the situation Arthur finds himself in now, and that situation involves Arthur lingering outside a coffee shop with clammy palms and a furrowed, conflicted brow as a narcissistic, intimidatingly good looking French International student probably sips on his fancy-flavoured cappuccino inside as he leers at attractive men and woman passing by.

"Get it together man," Arthur says to himself resolutely, talking the courage into himself since he didn't have Alfred, Matthew or Kiku to do it for him. None of the three even know of the coffee date Francis had proposed and he would prefer it to remain that way. "You're just going to go in there Arthur, make it clear that you're here to fill in the gaps, before leaving a complete man. Nothing more, nothing less-"

"Arthur? Is that you talking to yourself? Ah it is!" Calls out a familiar dreaded _French accented_ voice from behind him that makes Arthur sweat more. Being struck by lightning now was preferable to this. Arthur could only hope. That voice continued as Arthur's shoulders stiffened, "Bonjour! So nice to see you have not changed after so long!"

Whirling around and staring wide eyed at a pleasantly surprised Francis like a deer caught in the headlights, Arthur is thrown off by the sudden and untimely appearance. This wasn't how he'd wanted it to play out in his head, not at all. He wanted to stride into the cafe with poise so confident the crowds would part like the red sea in awe of his brilliance, he wanted to ooze certainty that would show Francis who was boss in this conversation, that Arthur would not tolerate flirtations or mockery, that he merely meant business and business only.

Confidence went out the window and was replaced by defensiveness as he watched Francis dander up to him, hands in his pockets of his stylish and unnecessarily tight jeans that really accentuated his calves, dressed as impeccably as always. With perfect 20/20 vision, Arthur finds himself appreciating the view too much, eyes relaying to his brain that _yes_ , Francis had gotten even better looking since the last time they'd seen each other a few months ago.

Blinking owlishly, Arthur is temporarily tongue tied. "Ah- bollocks." He murmurs before clearing his throat and rolling on his feet, stuffing idle hand s in his pockets. "It's been a while, yeah, uh- how was summer break?" Arthur hurriedly adds, glaringly awkward.

"It was great!" Francis beams. "Went home to Paris, travelled for a month or so with a few friends from home- and with Antonio and Gilbert of course. Did you stay in England?"

Arthur tries to be pleasant and shakes his head. "Went back to America."

"With Alfred?" Francis queries, blue eyes outlined with long lashes genuinely seeming interested. Everyone on campus knew how inseparable Arthu and Alfred seemed to be.

"Back to my family actually. It's where I've lived since the age of fifteen." Arthur elaborated and Francis' preened perfect eyebrows shoot up in surprise at Arthur's revelation. "Yeah uh, my mother and father divorced years ago and she wanted a change of scenery, but that's a story for a different day."

"But you're so stereotypically English, I wouldn't have guessed."

"I'm still English you idiot," Arthur bristled, although he wasn't sure why. It was probably at Francis' existence. "My father and mother are both British, I lived in England until I was fifteen and I've got two older siblings living here, one in Wales and one in Scotland- why am I telling you my life story again?"

Francis shrugged, trying not to smile in amusement too much. "I didn't ask for it. You volunteered it?"

"Wait, what do you mean stereo-typically English!? Explain yourself!" Demands the Englishman haughtily.

"I didn't say that was a bad thing!" Francis declares defensively before quickly moving out from under Arthur's scrutinising stare to open the door of the cafe for him. "We'll fight inside, after you."

"I'm perfectly capable of opening doors myself." Arthur says begrudgingly .

"Fine," Francis relents. "But don't say I didn't try to cooperate with you. Clearly you're going to make this talk difficult." he adds before folding under Arthur's stubborn eyes to head inside, Arthur following hot on his heels.

"It doesn't matter how nice we try to be to each other, this is still going to be difficult to talk about from the get go-"

"These things happen all the time, no? I'm not bashful about." Francis claims, getting into line and studying the drinks board. Arthur fidgets as he stands behind him.

"Maybe to you. And neither am I." Yet Arthur's face burns bright, and Francis bites his lip at the endearing glow before he grimaces at the sight of a ham and cheese croissant – it was the least croissant looking croissant of a croissant he had ever seen, it wasn't even curvy!

"I'll have to take your word for it." Francis murmurs before turning his attention to the imploring barista and ordering a triple shot vanilla latte with an elaborately filled baguette. Arthur orders soon after, a pot of Earl Grey and a sandwich. Francis offers to pay and Arthur shoots down the offer.

"Stop trying to be polite, it doesn't suit you." Arthur says with a curled lip as they manoeuvre their way to an empty table by the window. "You're supposed to be the dictator of the dictatorship of dickheads. If you offer to pay for one more thing of mine, I'll be tempted to punch you."

"Gee, I'd like to apologise for trying my best not to be an ass." Francis says as he slides into the low armchair opposite Arthur, getting comfy. An elderly lady looks up from her paper at him and he smiles in apology at her.

"I'm sorry Frog, I should really be more appreciative of your efforts, I know it must be hard to do when you're such a natural at being one." Is Arthur's comeback as he sipped on his freshly poured tea, wincing when the temperature of it burned his tongue. Francis smiles. Karma for all that mouthing he was trying to do.

"Remind me again how you seduced me that night last year? Was it with that attitude?"

Arthur's face light up faster than a traffic light and Francis took a smug bite of his baguette, chewing slowly as Arthur squirmed in search of something to serve back at him. Snippets of horrible, handsy flirting were vague in his mind, Arthur running his hands down Francis chest and over his hips as they danced close in a smoky living room that reeked of weed. There had been a pint glass of red wine in Francis' hand, holding over half a bottle, and Arthur vaguely remembers wanting to convince the Frenchman to share it with him...

"God, I didn't, did I? I hope not..." Stammering a bit, Arthur frowning, his face becoming burdened with the thought of activities unknown. Arthur knows now that he would shag Francis if given the perfect chance – it was an alarming realisation, that he found the man irrationally attractive even when he was sober. It had always been a whisper at the back of his mind, but now that little thought had acquired a damn megaphone and echoing from every corner of his skull. Arthur continued to tell himself that such thoughts were normal to anyone with eyes. Arthur inhaled some courage then, deciding they might as well deal with the elephant in the room, "I, er, don't quite know what went on that night actually. If you would kindly fill me in..."

Francis brows furrow and he takes a contemplative sip of his latte, looking unsure himself. "I'm fuzzy on the entire night too. It's difficult to know what happened. I was hoping you would have some answers for me..."

"Oh dear," deadpans Arthur, grimacing afterwards. "Well... haven't I got bad news for you?" The tips of the Englishman's ears are still blazing, but his increased blood flow to his face was the least of his concerns now. "To make this simpler, I'll be blunt." After a large gulp of burning tea to scorch his tonsils, as if it would burn way the awkwardness now firmly rooting itself between them, he wets his lips and asks, "Did we or didn't we shag that night?"

Looking surprised at the frank question, Francis blinks at him a few times before he shakes his head. "Non, I'm certain we didn't." Arthur's _hefty_ and dramatic sigh of relief coupled with his mumbled "Thank Jesus and the mother Mary, the lord almighty has answered my prayers" offends Francis, somewhat, and he bristled hilariously – well, Arthur thought so as he took a giant bite of his sandwich, his appetite returning at the news. "Hey, I'm not the _worst_ pull on the campus and to remind you, it was you who came hard onto me, or don't you remember that?"

Arthur chokes on his sandwich and coughs and splutters, eventually freeing it from his throat and swallowing it down. "I'm not normally the type to instigate things, doesn't sound like me. Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred percent sure, three times over?"

"Positive. Not only that, you ruined my favourite shirt!" Francis whines. It's comforting to Arthur when he spots the pink that soon dusts the Frenchman's high cheekbones. So the man had some sense of embarrassment? interesting. Wait- for what reason was he blushing-?

"How did I ruin-? Oh... Oh, okay, I didn't spill alcohol on it, did I?" Arthur stared, shocked, hot under the collar. This wasn't the most appropriate of places to be implying these things, he thought. "Ah- double entendre?"

"Something like that Arthur, yeah." Francis smiles as awkwardly as Arthur feels. Another comfort that proved to himself he wasn't overreacting. "We may not have ended up doing everything but we did get a little bit physical... I think? I think I had two and a half bottles of wine in me at that point."

Was it possible for a human to become one with a chair? Arthur would soon find out, because he was really, really trying to achieve that end result. There's a heavy gobsmacked silence in which Arthur imagines himself jumping and rolling from his chair to escape Francis, leaping clean over and sliding under tables in an attempt to get to the door as fast as possible, he imagines this in an attempt to banish fleeting vague images and sensations resurfacing - there's a blonde head of long hair before him, Francis, hazy in memory, on his knees. They aren't in the living room anymore... the bathroom? He's leaning his weight on an uncomfortable faucet and there's impatient banging on the door of another student who really needs the toilet, but they don't seem to care as Arthur encourages Francis with a sloppy hand cupping his cheek, Goosebumps peppering his skin as Francis shifts, his knee accidentally knocking over the leftover wine in the pint glass at Arthur's feet-

"I don't know if your heart has stopped or not, speak to me," Francis laughs, it's nervous and unsure and everything but the confident student that flirts his way around campus.

"Oh it's definitely working- I think I need a Xanax," Arthur murmurs, forcing himself to look Francis in the eye, heart now racing - in mortification, obviously, why else would it be pounding, if not in shame? "You told me you had a girlfriend at the time..." is all Arthur can manage to say, swallowing heavily. It was the wrong thing to say, judging by the harrowed look that suddenly flooded Francis' very open and revealing blue eyes, atmosphere around them dropping so much it went from heavy to suffocating. Quality social etiquette, Arthur thinks sarcastically, annoyed that he hadn't thought before he spoke, but then he realized it was a valid point to bring up.

"I did? Oui, I..." Francis breathes, trailing off, eyes lowering to bore into his latter as he ran his finger distractedly around the rim of his cup. Arthur straightens up, wondering if those are the eyes of a guilty man, but he couldn't get a good enough look into them to tell.

"Wow... what a douche." Arthur comments in the overbearing silence, scrambling to steer the conversation away from what they'd done with one another and relieve the sexual tension Arthur suddenly felt. This was also the wrong thing to say, blue eyes snapping up to meet green, they glare hard at him, making Arthur immediately want to eat his words, but the Englishman returns the glare with defiant one of his own, not backing down. He'd said absolutely nothing wrong, only the brutal truth.

"It's not like that, I was completely faithful," Francis says resolutely, sure of himself. "But I'm not going to open up old wounds trying to explain my situation to someone as emotionally stifled as you."

Arthur rolled his eyes, "I don't know what the definition of cheating is in France but to me it's doing anything romantic or sexual with anyone else aside from your partner. Are you two still together?"

"That's not how-" Francis tucked some hair behind his ear in frustration, sighing when he decided explaining himself to Arthur was more effort than what is what was worth. "Non, we're not." He said instead, disheartened. "Will you drop it now, s'il vous plait?"

"Fuck, I'm a home wrecker." Arthur breathed, wide eyed. "I've always dreamed of being a doctor, but never _this_."

"Arthur, you're not a home wrecker," Francis assured him, scrunching up his nose in confusion at the Englishman dragging a hand down his face. "... What are you doing?" he asked as Arthur pulled out a pen and from his pocket and started scribbling on a spare napkin.

Ignoring the question, Arthur looked up at the confused Frenchman with a million questions in his eyes. "What is your ex-girlfriends name again? I know she's the one doing Human Nutrition, but I can't remember it for the life of me."

Francis enters a newfound state of confusion, "Naomi Clements... why?" He leans across the table to steal a glance at what Arthur was writing, and Arthur automatically leans out of the way when Francis' cologne fills his nostrils and makes his hairs stand on end at the possibility of suffocating on the sheer amount he wore. (What fragrance was that? It was very pleasing.) "Is that- Are you writing a note of apology!?" Francis asks, abashed, snatching it from under the pen and reading it quickly. "Are you mad!?"

"Give that back you slimy toad! I can't sleep easy knowing someone in the world hates me!" Grappling Francis's wrist, Arthur tugs it back towards himself. "Apart from you, of course. Let go of my draft!"

"You're not a home wrecker, Sourcils! You're not writing anything to her! Stop this nonsense!" Francis tugs it back towards himself, Arthur's elbow knocks over the remaining lukewarm tea in his cup.

"Oi don't call me that! I can use Google Translate and I know full well what that means!"

"And only idiots admit to using Google Translate!" Francis retaliates, successfully reclaiming the shredded napkin and cradling it to his chest, only to brace himself for something he knows not off as Arthur launches himself across the small table like the volcanic hothead he seemed to be- thankfully, there's an intervention before they can start any real fighting in front of what was now the attention of the entire coffee shop.

Two palms slam hard onto the table, making the ceramic clatter and a dishcloth whips each of them on the back of the head. Shielding his head with his arms, Arthur ducks low, and Francis lifts his sheepish eyes to meet pissed-off hazel, bracing himself for a barrage of ranting.

Many Italians Francis had come to know on his travels were friendly, pleasant human beings, warm and welcoming, but many Italian's were also not Lovino Vargas. The two knew each other well through Antonio, but how Antonio met the Italian still remained a mystery. All Francis and Gilbert knew is that one day they went to bed, and the two of them woke up to Antonio whipping up some white coffee while munching on _magdalenas_ , talking about this wondrous man named Lovino between mouthfuls of food. Arthur too knew Lovino, but instead of knowing him as the mysterious Italian that had appeared out of nowhere, he knew him as the fiery little foul-mouthed Italian barista at the student-worshipped coffee shop down the road who roasted people just as well as he could roast his coffee beans.

Standing tall, Lovino tucked the dishcloth into the pocket of his black apron and crossed his arms, a promise to unleash his wrath written on his face.

"Lovino, Bonjour! How are yo-"

"If you don't shut the fuck up over here Francis, I'll mess up your face much more than Google-Translate ever could." Lovino threatens, voice dripping with a disdain for life. "That goes for you too, Browzilla. Shut up."

Francis nods, happy enough not to argue with the boss, Arthur, however, is not. "Excuse you!? Browzilla?! What's that supposed to mean!?"

"Your brows are big enough to carry the weight of the world, that is what he means." Francis unhelpfully answered on behalf of Lovino.

This was a mistake, as Arthur _and_ Francis were tossed to the curb within seconds of an arguing starting up again. The Italian dusted off his hands and went to slam the door, pausing at Arthur's request. "Hold on! I wasn't finished with my sandwich!"

Telling Arthur to hang on, Lovino marches from the door only to return and toss the remained of his sandwich at him, the Englishman failing miserably to catch it.

"And why did you throw me out too!? Aren't I a good friend Lovino?!" Francis asked, brushing off his clothes as he got up off his ass.

"You brought that loud asshole here, and you're really annoying." Lovino says plainly before slamming the door and flipping them off through glass, returning to his work and relishing the peace. Francis, looking towards Arthur in bemusement, rocked on his feet.

"It stings when he doesn't acknowledge I'm a friend, we actually get along really well sometimes. He's a fabulous chef, you know? I would bathe in his family's secret pasta sauce if only he'd make enough for me. Like Cleopatra and her milk, it's bound to be good for the soul and the skin." Francis said, deflation showing in his sunken shoulders. Arthur squints at the French student as if he'd lost his mind.

"Okay...? So... what now?" Arthur asked, frowning at the Frenchman's thoughtful look in response. "Is this it? Can I finally leave and not have look at your face any longer?" He doesn't mean it, as Francis is a sight for sore eyes, and Francis knows this too well.

"I don't think this helped any, we're both still clueless about everything, but what happened that night will never make sense..." Francis said, "I guess so?"

"Great news!" exclaimed Arthur and Francis laughs at the enthusiasm of it, "Then I guess I'll... get going?" At this, Arthur brows furrow. He Turns slightly and hesitates as if waiting for Francis to wish him a bon voyage. Despite the arguing and insults between discussing awkward encounters, it hadn't been as bad as Arthur had been expecting, and Francis wasn't such bad company when he was on his own and not making an arse of himself with his other two baboons for friends.

"Oui, moi aussi. It was... interesting, today." Francis said after an inhale, preparing to part ways too. He hesitates and flashes Arthur a small dashing smile that confuses the Englishman's mind and body- was it possible to love to hate a person? (Or rather, love to hate how handsome a man was?) "For all the trouble you cause, you're not the worst to have coffee with."

Arthur's lip curls and he lifted an intrigued brow and he turns back to face him properly, discreetly flattered. It was incredibly odd how even fighting with Francis was so amusing to him. Maybe Francis thought the coffee date hadn't been a complete disaster too if he wasn't sprinting down the road already with those lanky French frog's legs of his. "Gee, thanks. May I ask who's the worst?"

Shaking some hair from his face, Francis smirks. "Ever heard of Roderich Edelstein? Austrian who studies music?" Francis asked and snickers at Arthur's wide eyes of recognition.

"Bloody Hell, who hasn't! He's dating that housemate of yours, isn't he? Elizabeta, right? She's Hungarian?" Francis nods fervently. "I know her quite well, actually. Met Roderich a few times too because of her. "

"You know of Elizabeta!? She's never said!"

And for some strange unknown reason, goodbye never properly came then, not until later on in the evening, after they'd dandered the shops while loudly disagreeing on fashion- there'd been an eyebrow threading booth and Francis had teased Arthur about not ever using one, to which Arthur responded by determinedly pushing a terrified, melodramatic Francis through the double doors of a hairdressers. They still hadn't said goodbye after they grabbed a chippy, sitting gossiping and arguing on a park bench, Arthur groaning in ecstasy at the battered cod he was hogging all to himself while Francis declared he didn't want any anyway because deep fried English food was worse than regular English food- yet he fought for his food valiantly when Arthur scoffed and tried to eat Francis' portion. Goodbye never properly came, not even as they parted ways and walked to separate parts of Nottingham, Arthur tossing a wave over his shoulder while Francis instead fired a wink over his, both promising to talk to each other later.

Francis woke to his alarm clock, loud annoyed banging on the wall from Gilbert's room who had also been woken by the alarm, and a text from Arthur the following morning. He rolled over with a smile to type out a reply. They didn't know it then, but it would be the bare beginnings of the very peculiar friendship between them, one that would surprise themselves and everyone around them in the weeks and months to come.

They both sung in the shower that morning.

* * *

 **End notes:**

 ***** Matthew and Alfred are full siblings, but instead of having both be American or both be Canadian they have a American mother and Canadian father. It would be too weird if Alfred was Canadian or Matthew American... so this was the result lmao.

So here we have it. Finally. It's been a tough couple of months, uni wise, work wise and personally, but I finally got around to writing this and part of chapter three. Geeze, I'd like to apologise to everyone who has favourited, followed and reviewed and thank adary for prompting me a while back to pick my arse up off the floor and get typing again, or who knows when I would've returned to this, merci, merci, merci! I honestly have so much fun writing this story, but my mental health became a massive hurdle after the second semester's exam period. Things are okay now, fingers crossed it stays this way for a while. I got really lazy at the end there as I am passionate about lazy, you can probably tell lol but I just wanted to get this out ASAP because it's been _forever_ and you lot and the FrUk ship deserve better.

Thank you for reading and I hope you all enjoyed it to some extent! Chapter three's scaffolding has been bashed out already and it contains plenty of my spirit animal Alfred, with Arthur mixing with the BTT so hopefully I can get it finished soon, but no promises ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ! Au revoir for now yo.


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